


Solitary Creatures

by terma_archivist



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Homoeroticism, Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-01
Updated: 1999-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Space and time and events therein are viewed with various levels of objectivity. Smut ensues. Ha!
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Collections: TER/MA





	Solitary Creatures

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> General Groveling: Thanks go out to Fannish Butterfly for support, handholding, votes of confidence, and nifty-swifty beta. I quite literally could not have written this without her. This story is dedicated with great love and appreciation to Bone, my own little Sunbeam—you are the Nell to my Snidely, and I never would have decided to hop into this particular bed if you hadn't pulled back the covers for me... Author's Note: Still a new little fish in a big scary pond. Happy to be here :-) Just to avoid confusion, please know in advance that I write two kinds of stories: 'Mairead Triste' stories, which are dark, and 'Aristide' stories, which are the fanfic equivalent of pop-tarts: sweet, but indulgent in a no-nutritional-value kind of way. This is a pop-tart. 'Nuff said.

Go to notes and disclaimers 

  
**Solitary Creatures  
by Aristide**

  
Things might have happened in a very different fashion if Blair hadn't been so damn susceptible to the Teenagers From Outer Space. What had been idle speculation would have remained as it should be—both idle and speculative, a dreamtime distraction left down at the level of a soft background hum. 

But maybe not. God, destiny, and frizzy anthropologists work in mysterious ways. Jim knew it. He usually didn't let it bother him much. 

But, it bothered him now. Bothered him, and even shamed him in some obscure fashion—he was too old, and, dammit, too insular to allow himself to be kept up at night thinking about might-have-beens and underground impulses. He should be asleep. Right now. 

Just asleep. Safely asleep. Zonked right out in the void, Jim Ellison sleeping the sleep of overworked cops everywhere. 

Right now... 

Jim turned over again. Sighed. Punched his pillow vehemently. 

And remained stubbornly awake. 

* * *

Sandburg had been born with too much energy, and not enough appreciation of the words 'free beer'. That was why he ended up at the mercy of the Teenagers From Outer Space while Jim sat, cool and casual (and progressing nicely with a fairly mellow buzz, thank you very much), in a shaded lawn chair next to the ice chest at the Cascade PD Summer Picnic. 

This was the first year in anyone's memory that the picnic had come off as scheduled, rather than being pushed back to one of any of the half-dozen allotted 'rain dates'. Jim guessed that it was probably this unprecedented miracle that provoked the strangely hyper atmosphere—but boy, whatever caused it, it was a truly weird experience to watch the department gear itself up to match the level of Blair's customary frenzy, rather than the other way around. The moments Jim had spent watching Sandburg and Taggart mount a united water-balloon assault on Simon seemed tinged with unreality, as if it were some sort of vague hallucination inspired by overdone burgers and violently yellow potato salad. 

The presence of Valerie and Mallory Roddin had only heightened the weirdness factor—perfectly identical and identically perfect; each one was a living, breathing manifestation of sixteen-year-old, Lolita-sweet jailbait. Oddly free of the streaks of surly rebellion that characterized most cops' kids; both of them were plentifully dimpled, bubblegum-popping bundles of long-limbed, congenial flirtation. He watched them ensnare Sandburg like a couple of Donna Reed clones suffering from an estrogen overdose, enticing him away from the beginnings of an impromptu touch-football game with thigh-flashing promises of hacky-sack. Sandburg never stood a chance. 

Narcotics Detective Sgt. David Roddin came and settled next to Jim long enough to partake in a companionable beer, long enough to ask a couple of shoddily-veiled questions about the wisdom of letting 'that observer fella—teacher, ain't he?', run loose around his precious 'angel-babies'. Jim reassured him with a series of dismissive, macho grunts; and refrained from poking Roddin about the fact that his two mutant children were not only from some planet where they patterned clones after Eisenhower-era TV shows, but also that both 'angel babies' apparently had a nascent geek-fetish, which (assuming a preference for jock-type grandchildren, which was indubitable), would cause major fatherly heartbreak if it wasn't nipped in the bud. 

Roddin drifted away soon enough, and Jim directed his entire attention to the pubescent grope-fest that was moving forward under the innocent guise of hacky-sack. The two Roddin offspring seemed to be playing in accordance with an unorthodox rule that required, as soon as the bag was kicked out of the field of play, an automatic penalty of a full-body tackle upon the person of the Monkey-in-the-middle—in this case, Simian Sandburg. 

It was fascinating, in a mildly perverse sort of way—all that girlish giggle and blossoming womanhood hurling itself at Sandburg like new cubs bringing down half-dead game; a practice sport, a warmup for eventual predatory violence. Jim watched as time and again Blair was brought to ground, handled and grappled with so forcefully that Jim would have been willing to bet there would be dainty hand-sized bruises on Sandburg's ass for the next few days. Blair was powerless—he couldn't grab back; not when a defensively raised hand would most likely end up full of heaving, sixteen-year-old tit. He didn't seem to mind too much. 

Jim watched and drank, waved off Simon's efforts to shanghai him into the Vice/Major Crimes tug-of-war, staved off a growing hunger with two bites of ice cream before he decided that beer was a safer bet, and watched some more, and drank some more. There was a lull in the game when both of the twins decided that they needed to know exactly how ticklish various spots on Blair's body were; and Jim cracked open a fresh Heineken without looking at it, mesmerized by the sight of Sandburg writhing and breathless under torment. 

No sooner had Blair begged them off of him and recommenced the game when a wild kick from (was that one Valerie?) sent the bag spinning up and over and into the trees... from where it did not descend. 

"Oh, _damn_ it!" "Watch your mouth, Mal." "Oh _right_ —like you're gonna tell _daddy_ on me?" "Maybe I will, then—that'd fix _you_ , that's for sure—" "Oh yeah? You do and I'll tell that you slid your hand up his shorts—what if he hadn't _stopped_ you?" 

—giggle— 

Donna Reed morphs into Madonna. Jim smiled. Strange things in this world. 

Blair climbed the tree. The girls stood underneath, watching. Jim watched them watch Blair, eavesdropped on their hushed and husky teen-magazine appraisal of that _butt_ , those _eyes_ , that _hair_... Jim smirked, and rolled his eyes. 

The bag fell to earth, and the girls dived on it, squealing. 

They got out of the way just in time. A split second later a sound of ripped fabric and a surprised yelp intruded, and Blair thumped to the ground. Bounced about as high as the bag had, to boot. 

Jim was on his feet before he knew that he meant to stand. 

Needlessly. Sandburg was up again and moving before Jim could even take a step. Limping a little, but evidently essentially unharmed. Jim sat down. 

He watched as Sandburg made slow progress towards him, smiling, waving off all inquiries and offers of help, flanked by his ultra-solicitous alien teenage escorts, both of whom were taking full advantage of the situation to prop him up and help him along, making occasional little birdlike dives toward his leg. Okay—he was okay. 

Jim cleared his throat. "You're not gonna claim Workman's Comp for that, are you, Sandburg?" 

Blair settled gingerly onto the grass next to his lawn chair. "Oh yeah—I figure if I play it right, I can get enough of a 'hazardous duty' bonus to take care of my tuition for the next semester..." 

Jim passed him a beer. "Asshole." 

Soft, identically muted gasps from the peanut gallery. Jim just stared at them. 

The twins offered some final, tentative appeals ('are you _sure_ , like, _totally_ , that you're okay?' 'yeah, for _real_?'), and then backed away slowly, wide-eyed and fidgety, finally turning with a fresh tide of giggles toward the nearest Frisbee scrimmage. 

Blair sighed. "It's the scowl, man. You've gotta learn that not all women get turned on by that scowl." 

"Fuck you very much, Sandburg. They were evil. I saved you. You owe me. Want another beer?" 

"Gimme—ah, better than aspirin. Evil? Jim—you must need a vacation, or something. They were sweet. At least— _I_ thought they were sweet." 

Jim let it go, distracted by a certain, all-too-familiar scent. He breathed. The sorting and sifting process was automatic, now—sweat, arousal, a trace of blood—"You're bleeding, Chief." 

He watched Blair poke at the rip in his shorts, high on his left thigh. "No big deal—I think I've got a splinter, that's all." 

Jim appraised him blandly, and sniffed again at the subtle, almost teasing scent of desire. "Want me to smile pretty, call the twins back? I bet they'd be happy to help you dig it out..." 

Blair smiled, looking almost self-conscious, a little nervous. "I'm sure their father warned them about smiling men—they'd probably report you to daddy. No, I'll take care of it when we get home. I'm okay." 

"Right." 

Companionable silence descended. Jim inhaled quietly, dangling his latest bottle from the tips of his fingers, swinging in slow circles past the angle of his knee. Grass. Barbecue. High summer. Sandburg with a trace of bubblegum still clinging to him, grass-stained, barbecue-smeared, summer-sweaty and turned on—Sandburg and tree sap and blood... 

...Sandburg and two blondes, virgins, two eager but unbroken girls; fighting over his various body parts like depraved little hellions—who the hell's in charge of this rodeo, anyway?... 

...tree sap and blood... 

...and blood—who would bleed here? You or them? Break through—do it, you don't want to dick around with that, 'cause it only hurts worse if you try to be kind—blood, just a trace, just a trickle; hot-copper scent of life, could be swept away with one moist and dedicated stroke of the tongue... 

Jim blinked, sniffed, and shook himself a little. Drank his beer. Grimaced. 

Olfactory fantasies were part of the goddamn package, okay—he'd accepted that. Some time ago, he'd accepted that. But acceptance couldn't make a dent in the provoking irritation of knowing that now every time he smelled tree sap he was going to end up sporting a diamond-cutter. 

Great. Stay away from lumberyards, Ellison. 

Just stay away. 

* * *

And later, in the loft, in the soft relieved haze of being home and tired and somehow sun-struck even though he'd spent most of his time in the shade, Jim tuned in to Radio Blair one last time before he took his exhausted self off to bed— 

Small gasps of pain and muffled curses from the bathroom. 

"Chief? You okay?" 

A sigh, then—"Splinter—can't see it through all the hair." A quiet hiss that trailed off to a chuckle. "I think I'm gonna have to shave my leg, Jim. You'll still like me though, right? I mean—you can still let me drive the truck and everything, can't you? It's really a—Ow—really a _health_ issue, man, no matter what anyone says..." 

He tried the door. Locked. "Let me in, Sandburg. I'm not running around with some half-Esther-Williams freak..." 

Blair opened the door, wearing only a pair of boxers and a disgruntled frown. "I wasn't gonna shave my _whole_ leg, Jim. I know you've got your reputation to protect—" 

"Uh-huh. And so what exactly am I doing with you in my life? Sit down." 

Blair sat on the edge of the tub, handed over the tweezers. "Hey, I'm your one-man P.R. Department—you just look so macho standing next to me—ouch!" 

Sandburg didn't have a splinter. He had _four_. Three of them lodged in the narrow gash on his thigh, and one about an inch below that, right above a shallow scratch. "Don't be such a goddamn baby, Sandburg. I see 'em. I'm on it." 

"I'm not being a baby—you're not the one who's getting his thigh-meat excavated here—oh ow ow ow..." 

"Guess this'll teach you to strut your virile stuff in front of the teen-beat nation—" 

Jim stopped abruptly. He had a splinter held fast, a red fleck caught in the end of the tweezers. He had blood on his fingers. 

Sandburg had a hard-on. 

"Um... Sandburg..." Jim almost couldn't recognize his own low growl. "You'd better be thinking about those twins." 

Silence above him. For too long. He pulled back. 

That _look_ —mute and slightly crazed, and _way_ too naked for this kind of close proximity... When Blair cleared his throat, Jim jumped. "Not at the moment, no." 

Jim's head dropped involuntarily, his attention focused back on the wound because right now that was the only place he _could_ focus, the only part of Blair he could look at without... Without saying or doing something he'd regret. Cold with shock and yet hot with a strange feeling of exposure, Jim kept very still. It would go away. Sandburg was obviously having an off moment (perhaps not an odd thing after all, considering he'd spent the afternoon being fondled by reprobate virgins). Not a big deal. 

Slippery, bloody fingers trembled around the tweezers. Yes, a big deal. 

He firmed his grip and the tremor stopped—better off as not a big deal—right. 

Jim cleared his throat, pushed everything from his mind except for fond thoughts of foolish hacky-retrieving, tree-climbing idiots, shrugged, and returned to his task. "Whatever gets you through it. Just hold still and don't whine." 

His fingers performed automatically, three more tiny, crimson, stake-shaped bits laid on the edge of the sink before it even registered on his conscious mind that every hair on his body was standing on end and he couldn't seem to pull in a full breath of air. He put the tweezers down and stood up too quickly, regretting it when his head swam. "That should do it. Don't forget peroxide. Good night." Curt and calm. Good. 

He left the bathroom and headed upstairs, and he didn't realize until he was stripped and settled and ready to get some shut-eye that his index finger and his thumb were still smeared bright red—he must have that stuff all _over_ by now, on his clothes, his sheets... 

He stared at his crimson fingers, mesmerized. He'd have to pre-treat the clothes, and change his sheets. He'd have to check the banister and look for any stray prints, clean those up. Right. 

Jim closed his eyes, directed his thoughts firmly to cleaning products and directions—cold water, cold water always... 

His jaw ached. He was thirsty. 

He licked his fingers—first the thumb, then the index; and shivered from the rough/smooth feel of his own tongue over salty, tacky, sensitized skin. The metallic tang washed through him with a rush like catching a wave, a big wave, big and irresistible and rising off the undertow. He shivered again, shocked at himself, shocked at his own behavior and response; savoring it anyway. 

Then he got up and changed the sheets. 

* * *

Understanding does not preclude frustration. 

That seemed like a sufficiently analytical thought, so Jim thought it again. Tasted it. Rolled it around in his mind just to see where it might stick. Understanding does not preclude frustration. Yes. The satisfaction he got out of the thought disappointed him, which was pretty damn contradictory, which in turn was pretty damn frustrating when you got right down to it... 

Jim sighed, and reached automatically for his coffee. He might as well have called in sick today for all that he had gotten done. He'd pushed papers he stared at but never saw back and forth between various piles on his desk, but other than clearing up a few dusty areas, not much in the way of actual work had been accomplished. He'd wasted time without netting any real result, and he hated that. He'd been distracted, and he hated that even worse. And now he'd discovered that his coffee was ice-cold, and that was pretty much cause for going Postal, as far as he was concerned— 

He sighed again, and leaned over to put the disgusting stuff far enough away that he wouldn't reach for it again without thinking. He felt frustrated. Obviously. On so many levels—so much here went across the grain of who he was—analytical thought was not, after all, his usual weapon of choice. He didn't like analytical thought. He liked intuitive leaps, instinct, gut response; and he liked action. 

Action—so much simpler, so much more direct and overt, so much more satisfying than this navel-gazing, brain-churning bullshit. Of course, if he'd gone that route, if he'd relied on his instinct for action, he wouldn't have spent last night's sack-time throttling a hard-on he could've broken down doors with into subsidence. No, Jim 'Action' Ellison would've redefined his unofficial moniker by hauling Sandburg up against the nearest wall and demonstrating that he was good for _much_ more than impromptu splinter removal. 

But he hadn't. Didn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't. And all other sorts of words that serve as a quick way of saying ' _not_ '. The moment he'd seen that wild, almost-guilty/almost-bold look on Blair's face it had been like it knocked him right out of himself somehow, moved him from a position in his own life from participant to observer, from action to... analytical thought. God help him. 

Really, really goddamn annoying—he hadn't been with anybody in over six months, and yet he felt totally and irrevocably fucked. He had a sneaking suspicion that only _he_ would be able to formulate a situation that convincingly pathetic. 

Pathetic indeed. As soon as he'd heard Blair's soft-spoken words, Jim had done _something_ , flipped the switch on some inner arbiter—for safety's sake. After all, in his first muddled consideration of last night's events, he hadn't been at all sure that his gut reaction might not have been to thump Sandburg a good one and remind him to keep it in his pants. Blair's unnatural quiet over breakfast this morning suggested that perhaps the same thing had occurred to him. 

But no. Thumping Sandburg was right out, at least, under these circumstances. Closer examination (and God—how he hated that; like poking at a wound that was fascinating in its severity) revealed what the arbiter had tried to conceal from him—it was actually kind of... _exciting_ , in a very bizarre way, and when the pieces all fell together they made a terrible kind of sense. The kind of sense that told him more than he'd really wanted to know about more than he'd ever cared to consider, and thereby cursed him with the burden of understanding... 

An understanding that did not, fuck it all to hell, preclude frustration. Right. 

Jim shrugged, rolling his neck until it cracked. He growled quietly—forcing his mind through these kinds of hoops was truly awful, and it was beyond him how Sandburg and other Sandburgian types managed to do it on a regular basis without going nuts. He reached for his coffee, stretching, grumbling vaguely at himself for setting it down so far away... 

Cold. Oh yeah. Apparently the erosion of his mental faculties had already started settling in. Wasn't that nice? 

Well, it might not be _nice_ , but at least it was helpful. When he was so far gone that he couldn't be bothered to remember to get hot coffee, the time for rational thought was past. There were some things a man of action couldn't be expected to withstand. 

Jim put his coffee cup down with a determined 'clunk', debated for about two seconds whether he should put his haphazardly reshuffled piles into some sort of order, mumbled 'kiss my ass' loud enough to prod a shocked gasp out of a passing administrative clerk, then grabbed his jacket and made for the door. 

It felt so good to move, to take these decisive steps—he could almost hear the cheesy '70's cop-show soundtrack in the background. It made him smile. 

* * *

"I need your help." 

Jim had known those words would do it, would cut through any initial resistance and get Sandburg's full attention in a way that no others would. And he was right—when Jim walked in the door, Blair's initial greeting had been tentative and a little distant, not much pause in the constant chitter-click of the keyboard from inside his room; but as soon as Jim came into the doorway and dropped his little bombshell Blair was at attention, all evident presence and warm concern; still looking a little uncertain, but apparently very much there for him, nonetheless. 

"Sure, Jim. Anything, man—you know that. What is it?" 

Jim opened his mouth automatically, paused, and then closed it again. Ah. The flaw in the plan. On the way home in the truck Jim had constructed the perfect opening line, but he'd been so distracted (in a modestly smug sort of way) by considering what a very perfect line it was that he hadn't really paid attention to constructing any follow-up lines, perfect or otherwise. Whoops. 

He cleared his throat, and decided abruptly that he didn't really _need_ a plan—that this particular plan had all been about letting it all go and not having any sort of organized plan... Good Lord, if he had to live like this, if he had to spend his time in constant thrall to these damn endless and slippery mindloops, he really would be insane inside of a week. 

"There's some things I need to tell you... and some things I want to know. I've been thinking today—I got jack-shit done at the office, and it's probably a good thing the guys in the black hats decided to take the day off, because I was pretty goddamn worthless." He ground to a halt, choking on his own words, his own admission; and he found that, perfect hook or not, his opening line had a disturbing amount of truth to it. His jaw was so tight it felt like he was chewing on rocks. "I need your help, Sandburg." 

Apparently his discomfort had communicated itself without any further elaboration, because before he could even draw another breath Blair was there with him, close but not touching, shooing him into the living room. Thirty seconds later there was a cold, open bottle in his hand, and Sandburg had settled himself on the other end of the couch with his best 'speak to me O Sentinel, my Sentinel' look on his face. 

This entire operation was executed in an edgy silence, and Jim found that there was a certain evil pleasure in realizing that Blair had muzzled himself on purpose—oh, he looked calm enough, all right, but closer inspection revealed lips pressed a little _too_ tightly together, and Jim enjoyed taking his time preparing his words while surreptitiously watching Blair work himself into a quiet little frenzy trying to keep his mouth shut. 

"Don't pop a vessel, Sandburg," he growled finally, "it's not like I'm going to start spouting the Sermon on the Mount, here." 

Blair's color was high in his cheeks, a manifestation of feeling that actually soothed Jim a little. There was this thing between them now, this big, dense, heavy weight of words and thoughts unspoken, and Jim was relieved to know he wasn't alone. It gave him the strength to speak. He chose his words carefully—words about Sandburg and not about himself, a little sarcastic maybe, and perhaps a little defensive—that seemed safest, for now. 

"So—are you hot for tweezers generally, or did it have something to do with me?" It was hard, so hard to get the words out... Jim swallowed, watched his words strike home. 

"Everything... it had everything to do with you, Jim." Totally calm, despite the blush. Amazing. 

Now Jim felt his own cheeks get hot—much less comforting than watching Sandburg sweat it out. He swallowed again. Had he expected a fight? Had he really? 

"Oh. Hmm." What the hell was he supposed to do now? He felt a terribly strong urge to squirm—unacceptable. He straightened his spine. "I meant to tell you... I wanted to tell you some things, but I don't know if I can." 

Blair's eyes were huge, grave and earnest; a picture that Jim used to find himself again when he was loose and wandering in the depths of a zone-out. Reassuring, usually, but not now; not with this... thing between them. He looked away quickly. 

"What can I do, Jim? Just tell me—I want... I want you to be okay; you know that, right? You _do_ know that?" 

"Don't look at me." The words escaped before Jim could bite them off, and immediately he regretted speaking them—he might as well have 'chickenshit' tattooed on his goddamn forehead... 

"Yeah, okay, man, whatever—not looking, I can do that." 

Jim's eyes were drawn against his will. Blair had his head reclined back against the couch, his gaze trained on the ceiling as if staring at it was the only way to keep it from falling down. Jim felt an immediate and curious sense of liberty—very odd to see Sandburg simultaneously present and distant, fully there with him and yet directed away—no scatter-shot lasers of concentration to spread havoc over him and his closely guarded stock of self. It left him free, somehow. 

His stomach dropped as things seemed to shift and slip around him. No longer an observer, Jim felt himself fill up his own body, fully at choice to move or to rest, tingling strangely within the boundaries of skin. Jim Ellison, present and accounted for... and then he found the words he'd wanted, the ones he hadn't quite been able to reach during eight goddamn hours of thinking in circles. 

"I don't think it even really surprised me, Sandburg. It was like—like part of me had... almost expected it. Been waiting for it. _That_ surprised me." As always, he marveled at his own aptitude for understatement. 

Blair sighed. "Jim, can I ask you a favor?" Odd, to hear Sandburg sound so very solemn. Serious, he was used to, but solemn was a new one on him. 

"Sure thing," he replied without thinking, freezing belatedly as it occurred to him what _kind_ of solemn favor Blair might be asking of him... 

"If this is working up to you telling me to leave, could we cut to the chase? I've been trying to be patient, but I know how you get when you're talking your way around something, and I don't think I can take it this time, okay?" 

And in a sudden flash of insight, Jim _saw_ the schism between them, whole and complete. The line between observer and participant fell away, and Jim saw his own limits clear, his own need for distance and the darkness that lay behind it. He winced—that need in him _hurt_ Sandburg; Blair respected his need for distance although he didn't understand it, and consequently suffered the tortures of the unknown while he waited (so patiently!) for Jim to come around, to either confirm or dismiss the fear. 

( _Why do you let me?_ ) He wanted to ask, but he couldn't, because as deep as his sorrow ran over the pain he'd never meant to inflict, there was still a wall there, and the wall was there for a _reason_ , dammit, and you don't just wake up one morning and decide that enough's enough, you're going to let almost forty years' worth of that shit _go_. 

But right then, in that moment of watching the sunset light illuminate soft curls, shine mellow peace at him from a smooth and blameless slope of forehead, he dug his nails into his palms and wished that, maybe, somehow, he could. If he could... if he could do that, why, he could—he would reach out, wouldn't he? Reach out and gather Blair to him, and look for a way to make amends... 

And then... what? 

Jim shook himself. There was a question on the table, and he didn't need to be wasting time tripping out over how sunlight looked. "No, Chief, I'm not telling you to leave." 

( _I just have no fucking idea how I'm going to deal with you if you stay._ ) 

He watched Blair swallow. "Okay. Thanks, man." 

And after that, there seemed to be no more to say. 

( _Oh yes there is._ ) 

Damn. His hands were shaking again. Just like last night. "Blair?" 

A careful blink. "Yeah?" 

And with a sense of deep, terrible regret, a fully detailed comprehension of his own failings coupled with the grief of knowing that he couldn't give them up, not yet, Jim allowed his numb lips to speak. 

"Look at me." 

Blair did. 

* * *

Even like this, nerve-wracked and a little sad and frighteningly excited and terribly unsure, Jim found it comforting to know that he had been right. Being right was the same solace it had always been. 

He'd believed without reservation that Sandburg would read the truth, would _see_ his desire with one look, and he'd been right about that. It was something, the only thing, really, that he felt like he had to hold onto in this moment. 

However, the consolation of this brilliant and accurate leap of deduction was seriously offset by the immediate follow-up realization of how deeply, vastly, and tragically _wrong_ he'd been about what might happen next. 

All of his thoughts and considerations last night and throughout the day had been about his own actions towards Blair, what he might do to Blair, with Blair; good old Jim Ellison surmounting his sudden sexual crisis in the active mode, through explorations into the unknown with his energetic accomplice, Blair. 

It had somehow never even crossed his mind to stop and consider what the hell Blair might do to _him_. 

His calculations had been off, therefore, by about a hundred and seventy pounds or so. The same amount of weight currently straddling his lap. 

Stunned and speechless, Jim tried to catch his breath; his eyes pressed tightly shut as feather-soft touches skated with tingling intimacy over his ears, his cheeks, his forehead. Behind his closed eyes he lived it all again, survived that moment when Blair looked at him and the light went on, sparks like champagne bubbles drifting in blue eyes, and then all complacent rightness went abruptly out the window as Sandburg _floated_ across the space between them and started _doing things_ to him. Gently. Softly. Everything tinged with a slow, earnest adoration, nothing threatening, nothing he couldn't handle, but— _doing things_. To _him_. 

Right now, despite his mind's insistence that this couldn't be happening, not like this; Blair was doing these things. Still. 

Jim's mind seemed to _bend_ somehow as everything turned inside-out. Great Holy Jesus-Flagwaving-Christ; how in the hell had this _not_ occurred to him? 

"You." Blair whispered, and Jim squeezed his eyes tighter shut. "Feel. So. Good..." 

Suddenly, despite the dire implications of his own question, Jim found himself caring a lot less about getting an answer to it. 

Right isn't everything, after all. 

Tender hands tilted his face up, and Jim's eyes flew open. Blair was intent on him, looking entranced and unshakable and not at all like an accomplice, but much more like a man who knew _exactly_ what he wanted. What to do. What to take... 

Bending languidly to his mouth, easily, relentlessly, moving with poured-honey slowness, like someone in a dream— 

"Wait," Jim gasped out, neck muscles strained by pulling back so hard, "That's... This is... Sandburg, this is just too fucking weird—" 

"I thought about this more than anything else," Blair interrupted smoothly, shifting against him like a human tide, "feeling you hard like this—you're _hard_ , Jim; and kissing you..." 

"Mm-mm." Wordless, mouthless, pointless way of saying 'no'. Speechless again, but this time he couldn't talk if he'd wanted to, because Blair's _tongue_ was in his mouth, and all at once he was trembling so hard he thought he might shake them off the couch. 

Wet. Slick. Luscious. Opening him up. Tasting him, and teasing, terribly teasing... 

"Mm-mm..." Oh, that didn't sound very convincing at _all_. 

Plunging in and rocking, warm hands on his face, on the back of his neck, stroking, soothing... 

"Mmmm." Fucking _hell_. Jim stole a breath. Regretted it when he heard himself groan into Blair's mouth. 

Open and wet, warm and close, and his own hands were moving, reaching, _feeling_... 

"Mmm—ohhh..." Blair captured his tongue, flicked it, seduced it, and bit down. 

Jim came in his pants. 

* * *

On September 10, 1972, Jim Ellison had been excused from his Algebra I class by Ms. Alton-Finch, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Estelle Winwood on a bad day. He stalked purposefully through the unfamiliar hallways, clutching his bathroom pass, trying hard not to feel like a stupid freshman who couldn't wait 'till lunch to drain the snake. All of the first-day-of-high-school hype had been upon him, the exigency of new friends and team tryouts and things that would keep him busy and get him _out_ of the _goddamn house_ until he could for fuck's sake _leave for good_... 

The pattern of imprisoned anger behind his thoughts made him turn the lavatory tap much harder than he'd meant to when he went to wash his hands, and consequently the rusty old faucet jetted a furious stream of water right onto the crotch and down the inner leg of his carefully faded jeans. 

Thus, Jim Ellison spent the first lunchtime and fifth period of his high-school career looking exactly like a dorky freshman who'd just wet his pants. 

Not exactly a hugely formative experience, but definitively the most embarrassing, the most horrifying, the most oh-God-give-a-guy-a-break-and-just-kill-me-now shameful experience he'd ever had. 

Until this one. 

* * *

He let Blair hold him. He didn't really object, but even if he had he wouldn't have done much about it, because he was far too busy wanting to die. He let Blair hold him, he felt the light butterfly touches of Blair's lips across his ferociously hot forehead and prickling against his hair, and kept his energy focused on not panting like a bull-moose in heat. 

"Jim—man, are you okay? Everything's cool, you know; we're cool here..." The patented Sandburg Soothe, post-coital version. Jim shivered. He couldn't move his arms. They were locked tight around Blair's body and that seemed wrong, to cling so tightly when he was cringing with shame, but he couldn't make himself let go. 

"There's nothing—shh—there's nothing to be ashamed of, that was wonderful, you're wonderful..." Oh, he didn't want to be comforted by this—these words were not the place he wanted to take his consolation from; he needed space and time and distance, needed to put himself back together in some dark and isolated place, but... but... 

"You're not alone." Blair found room between them, somehow. Glinting brilliance of sun-shiny curls curtaining down from above (and when was the last time he'd had hair in his face? Too long, too long ago), and a peaceful, hollowed pocket between them where Blair's clever hands were busy, unzipping his own jeans, reaching, pulling out what Jim could feel the heat of, but couldn't bring himself to look at. 

"You're not... alone..." Blair settled into him like he was the most comfortable chair in the world, utterly at home and cozy, and resting so sweetly against the top of his head—Blair Sandburg, doing what felt good, snuggling up in Jim's lap and whacking off. Jim gasped, and the scent of it reached him; dark and passionate, and elusively tempting in a way that made him want very badly to get closer. That reborn hunger killed the shame in him quite effectively, and abruptly his entire body seemed on fire with the awareness of what was happening; every stroke, every slow, swaying movement, every indulgent sigh of enjoyment from above—it was unreal, it was unbelievable, it was quietly outrageous on a whole new level, and he was treasuring it _deeply_ , drinking it in, because it was so mindblowingly hot he was already hard again. 

"Oh Jim..." Softly affectionate above him, relaxed and responsive without a single hint of fear or embarrassment—how did he _do_ that? Jim held Blair more tightly, leaned into the hollow of throat so that he could peek furtively downwards, struggling with his rapid breath and the dim suspicion that he was going to start shaking again soon. 

"Wonderful, wonderful—yeah..." Blair arched against him, rubbing, thrusting towards him, getting himself off quite effectively while Jim hit a level of panicked lust he hadn't known was possible and groaned with the pain of being trapped in his pants while all this gorgeous wanton flesh undulated across his thighs. He'd meant to peek but he was _staring_ now, Blair's hand, Blair's cock moving, excitement so rich it was a kind of torment, gripping him deep under his stomach, under his balls, washing all awareness away except that of need. 

"You too," Blair gasped from above, and sure enough the shakes set in, right on schedule, "I know... you want to... so come on, Jim—let's do this thing..." As if the words had released him Jim found that he could let go, could untangle his arms from their deathgrip to slide unhesitatingly into his own lap. Blair leaned back a bit to accommodate him, and then there was only the devastating awareness of how close those parts of them were, and a last bright flash of shame as his fingers slid through the puddle he'd made earlier, and then delirious relief as he took himself in hand. 

Something brought his eyes up then, perhaps some strange standard of mutual pleasure that decreed that it was somehow rude not to look at the guy you were jerking off with—whatever it was, Jim found himself caught by half-lidded eyes and flushed skin, lazy smile and desire and _such_ sensual intention that he felt his cock leap in his hand, and he hissed. 

"I'm going to fucking come all over you," Blair said serenely while he leaned forward, and the world went white-hot for a moment before Jim came back to himself, lost already in mid-kiss. 

While he'd been gone a lot of the tranquility had evaporated out of the atmosphere, and now he was plastered against the couch under the assault of a moaning, heaving maniac, a hot and compact embodiment of erotic craving that fed off his tongue like it was some kind of aphrodisiac, humping against him and twitching every time their busy hands slid aside enough for their cocks to streak against each other. 

When Blair grabbed his wrist Jim shuddered. A quick fumbling, a brief ache of loss while his hand was pried loose, and then he cried out mindlessly because Blair was _right there against him_ , close and hard and pushing at him, and his fingers obeyed when Blair guided them to wrap around both shafts, squeezed them together as if he'd been doing it all his life. 

All he could do was hold on. It was all that he could do, and thankfully, it was all that was necessary. Blair moved and slid, sucked on his tongue and held him steady and fucked his cock wildly, desperately, three sharp jerks before wet heat spurted over his glans, his groin, his stomach, and Jim cramped with the sudden pain of how wonderful that was and thrust up hard under Blair's weight and came, unbelievably soon after the last time but he did, he did; savoring the taste/sound of Blair's cries against his gasping mouth. 

"Jim—hold it—hold me like that... oh yeah..." Jim went numb with the aftershocks of cresting pleasure, still struggling to believe that this was _real_ , that this was _happening_ , that he'd just done—that Blair had just... that they... 

His mind caught up as his body settled down, and he couldn't stop, he couldn't stop shaking, heaving for breath, breathing in the smell of both of them together. He was heavy with the knowledge that nothing had ever been so sweet, so hot; that he'd thought that maybe he knew what he was getting into here but he was _wrong_ , very, very wrong. Abruptly his eyes burned and he shut them quickly—( _Great. The final fucking insult._ ) 

Jim pressed his lips tightly together, and tried to ease up on himself a little—how could he have known, when nothing on earth had ever prepared him for... for _that_? 

And then he just drifted; breathing hard, waiting. It occurred to him dimly that he might just be going into a bit of shock now, seeing as he was experiencing a pretty fucking profound epiphany while sitting on his couch covered in come with his roommate on his lap. 

He supposed he could allow himself that, under the circumstances. 

* * *

Fortunately, Sandburg seemed to pick up on his need for quiet. There was no new-age inquisition into the state of his feelings, no overt or covert scrutiny as he stated his intention to take a shower, got up, and left the room. 

He closed the bathroom door behind him, leaned against it with his eyes shut, and listened to the panicked-rabbit sound of his own heartbeat. The availability of hot water called to him with its usual siren song of relaxation and comfort, but he ignored it for the moment, waiting, waiting to be ready. 

There were pieces of things inside him, a jigsaw of emotions, thoughts and ideas that had been tossed sky-high only to patter down and reveal an _entirely_ different picture than the one he was used to looking at. He was still shaking. 

An entirely different picture. He drew in a deep breath, and the shakes worsened when he realized that he smelled like a victim of a drive-by circle jerk, and the air hissed out between his teeth when the awareness hit that he didn't really _want_ to wash it off yet, because it was a precious reminder of what had just happened, because it was maybe the very last thing he'd be able to imprint on his senses to round out his burning memories, because it was... nice. 

( _Nice. Oh Christ._ ) Jim opened his eyes, and faced himself in the mirror. 

And found, to his further surprise, that it wasn't as difficult as he'd feared it would be. He'd thought it might just about kill him, to look at himself and say hi to the man staring back at him; but actually the proof in the mirror—he was still _him_ , still himself, the only difference being that his eyes seemed to be glowing with some sort of semi-sane exultation and he was _really_ a mess—the proof of that was a relief, a strange comfort, maybe even... an improvement? 

For the first time, a crazed truth crashed home to him—he might survive, he might withstand his father's legacy. It made his heart pound fiercely. 

Jim stripped off his clothes (half fond farewell, half mildly revolted amazement at the sheer volume of what they were splashed with) and got into the shower. He was in the middle of a systematically brusque lathering of his own hair, accompanied by an electrically-edged fantasy of a much more languorous and sensual washing of somebody else's curls, when a perfectly rational internal voice spoke up and asked him exactly what was going to happen the next time Sandburg got close to him and drove him out of his mind. 

Beyond the obvious, of course. 

He stood there blinking under the water, the sting of soap in his eyes terribly reminiscent of the earlier burn, of that moment when he'd realized that the idea of letting Blair go was pretty fucking painful. His dick was hard _again_ ( _Sandburg—the Sentinel's Viagra_ ), but his chest ached deep inside and there was a coldness in the pit of his stomach that the heat of the shower couldn't touch. So many women—there had been so many women (and probably a bunch of men as well, for all he knew, only those hadn't been paraded in front of him), and none of them had ever found a grip that would last because Blair, like Jim himself, was a solitary creature; available to a certain extent but certainly no further than that... 

These disturbingly distressing thoughts were cut off by a sudden flash of memory, of a day about a month ago when Jim had stayed home sick with a bad cold, hacking his lungs out and doing a fairly convincing impression of a snot factory. 

...Sandburg had chosen to stay home with him, 'to keep him amused' as Blair put it, 'to bug the shit out of him', as Jim said. The day had stretched on endlessly, endlessly; long hours of forever with wind and rain whipping the hell out of everything outside the loft, but inside it was warm and comfortable. And the phone never rang and nobody disturbed them with any sudden crisis for once, and even though the cable went out sometime in the morning he'd never been bored because Sandburg played cards with him and joked with him, and made him drink some revoltingly sweet cocoa with little plasticlike marshmallows in it that they'd ended up fishing out of their cups and flicking at each other. And when darkness finally, finally fell Blair taught him how to make some weird curried dumpling soup that made his whole face run with sweat and other gross fluids and they had laughed a _lot_ at that... 

Jim finished up his shower with his usual perfunctory efficiency, musing on all the new definitions for so many, many things. This is Jim. This is life. This is sex. This is friendship. This is love. ( _Look familiar? No? Well, what did you expect?_ ) 

( _This is change, walls or no walls, Mr. Almost-forty-years-of-bullshit. And, solitary creature or not; it's a fucking gift._ ) 

Jim caught his own eyes again in the mirror, vague through a haze of steam. Yes, confirmation there—a gift. 

( _Now go, and try not to be a chickenshit bastard. Don't you cheat him _or_ yourself... okay?_) 

Jim put on his robe, dumped his clothes into the hamper with one last rueful grin, and opened the door. 

Okay. 

* * *

He was fine, just fine, dealing and coping and keeping his apprehension and his excitement nicely balanced to form some sort of equilibrium; he was _fine_ right up until the moment that he realized that he wanted Blair to fuck him. 

This little flare of enlightenment descended upon him while Sandburg was in the shower, while Jim was busy listening to the stream of water and thinking perverse thoughts and going over the couch with a moist cloth just to be on the safe side. His erection had thankfully subsided while he got out of the bathroom and Blair ducked in, offering only one reassuring smile and a look of repressed curiosity that had Jim nibbling the inside of his lower lip to keep from chuckling. His personal pup-tent returned, however, the moment he heard the water go on behind the closed bathroom door, the same moment he looked at the couch. Right there. Everything had changed right there, and there was a naked man in the bathroom behind him, naked and wet and scrubbing off the aftereffects of an impromptu lust festival, and nothing would ever be the same again. 

Cleaning steadied him, sobered him—not that there was much evidence of anything to clean (most of it had landed on _him_ , after all), but still—it was something to do while his mind constructed various scenarios that might have compelled him towards a much less innocent and less tidy activity while he waited for Blair to get out of the shower so he could suck his face. 

For once, the idea of being at a distinct disadvantage didn't really put him off his stroke (so to speak). Blair knew what he was doing, that much was evident, and Jim found himself happy enough to follow along blindly (hopefully _without_ any further instances of coming in his pants, please God), to learn from somebody he knew was a competent and thorough teacher, and if Blair wanted him to... 

Or wanted to... 

Or went ahead and... 

He froze, on his knees on the floor with cloth in hand while he went over the couch with intent scrutiny, abruptly so hard under his robe that it was hurtful as his body flashed hot with something galvanizing and electric, like being struck with some kind of erotic lightning that he felt _everywhere_ , but felt particularly strongly in a certain body part whose adaptability he hadn't really considered until this moment. 

Jim put his head down on the couch, relishing the cool, slightly rough touch against his flushed cheek, and bore up under the now almost-familiar signs of overwhelm—rushing, racing pulse, anxious little sips of air that never seemed to be enough, the shakes—and marveled at his own craziness. How could he know he wanted that; how could his _body_ know? He couldn't know, not really; but damned if he didn't _feel_ like he did. 

He closed his eyes. Shadow-Blair behind him, close and holding him, touching him everywhere and taking him places he'd never dreamed of—taking him, period; bringing all that intensity and focus and purity to bear on his body— 

Unaware of his own actions, Jim pressed his eyes shut tight until they stung, and covered his head with his arms. That was too much—from happily (relatively, anyway) hetero to apparently gay in one day he could handle, but from tightly controlled hetero to abandoned bottom-boy in something less than twenty-four hours? Oh no. No no no. That face in the mirror had still been _his_ face, and that had been a relief, and he didn't want to strain his own credibility past the point of bearing. 

But, oh... his hands came away from his head and stretched out over the couch, creeping languidly much the same way Blair had crept upon him earlier, leaving him spread wide open in a way that should have scared him to death but instead made him feel incredibly alive—an utterly new, wonderfully delirious feeling of being able to just _give up_ , to turn himself over with unquestioning trust and know that he was safe to do it, to let someone else be in charge of everything for just a few moments... did he really want to run away from that? 

Jim sighed and rubbed his cheek once more over the cushion, just a little, his mind buzzing. Actually, there was another option available to him, should he choose to take it. He could refuse to think about it, give life a chance to take him by surprise... 

Yeah, right. 

( _Try to remember to look shocked and apprehensive if and when the moment arrives, Jim old boy._ ) He sighed, glad that the tremors were finally fading away, and got himself up off his knees with barely-concealed reluctance. ( _Oh great—I'm a slut. Jim Ellison, 'Man of action' by day, slut by night. Just fucking perfect._ ) 

He heard the water in the shower go off the moment he gained his feet, and he headed with quick, nervous steps towards the kitchen to rinse and hang the cloth he'd used to clean up the couch. He then headed upstairs to put some decent clothes on while pointedly thinking non-Blair, non-lustful thoughts; but in the best tradition of the old joke everything he thought about (basketball, the last case, his next case, groceries he should buy, movies he wanted to see), seemed to have a Sandburg-esque angle to it, and the jump from there to lustful thoughts was a terrifically short one. 

( _Face it—you're screwed._ ) 

Jim sighed. Blinked. Thought about it. 

( _Don't I wish..._ ) 

He slapped his forehead and groaned quietly. 

* * *

Dinner was a nice reprieve, an interval of normality without any of the strained tension he'd thought he might have to endure. Pasta with big pieces of tomato and chicken mixed in, covered in some sort of weird spicy sauce that he wasn't quite sure about but decided to like after he found out that it didn't make his nose run. Beer. Salad that he didn't really want but ate anyway just to keep Sandburg from whining at him. Polite, civil, normal discussion—a comparison of internal politics between the University and the Cascade PD, the latest news on the Jags (good) and the latest statistics on national crime (bad); all in all the kind of evening he'd been enjoying for four years now without really paying attention to it. 

Blair seemed so frigging calm it was nearly frightening. Warm and friendly, yes, relating his opinions, thoughts and stories with his usual effervescence; but undeniably, unquestionably calm, as if the whole world hadn't just shifted a screaming ninety degrees to the left. Either this was Sandburg's idea of giving him 'space' and 'time to adjust', or Blair fucked his friends on a regular basis and then didn't ever talk about it again. 

He thought it as a joke, but it stirred fears in him that were quite real and unfunny. When the dishes were done and put away, the kitchen tidied and the counters wiped, Jim felt Blair's hand come to rest on his shoulder as he wrung out the sponge for the last time; and the relief that sparked through him made him sigh. 

"Jim," Blair was close, very close to him, close enough for Jim to lean down and kiss him, if he'd had the courage to do such a thing, "I know I probably scared the piss out of you earlier—I moved too fast, I know; and I'm really sorry that I did that, I mean, scaring you is like, the _last_ thing I wanted to do, but—" 

"I'm okay, Chief," he interrupted, and gave in to the urge to reach out, resting one damp hand gently on Blair's sleeve, "like I told you before, I kind of expected it, somehow—I think some part of me has been thinking about it for a long time." He squeezed gently, feeling muscles shifting under cloth, under skin, "I'm okay," he repeated gravely, ( _let's hear it for the Master of Understatement!_ ) "Really." 

Blair's eyes were very large, earnest and hopeful in that probing way that usually annoyed the hell out of him but actually seemed kind of cute, in the moment. "Really? You're okay?" 

Jim glared down at him. "Do orgasms negatively affect your hearing, Sandburg? I just told you fucking _twice_ that I'm fine." 

Blair smiled, looking delighted. "Yeah, man, but you lie about shit like that all the time. How'm I supposed to tell whether you're really okay, or whether you're blowing smoke up my ass and secretly flipping out?" 

Jim wondered absently if one of the perks of this new arrangement would be the option to spank Sandburg when he deserved it. "Chief," he replied dryly, "if I was blowing smoke up your ass, I _would_ be flipping out, and not very secretly. Did I ever tell you that your choice of metaphors says a lot about you?" 

Amazingly, Blair's eyes got even bigger. "Met-a-phors!" he drawled in a tone of religious mock-awe, "I guess orgasms must positively affect your vocabulary—hey!—" 

"That's it," Jim growled, his hand tight on Blair's wrist as he headed for the stairs, "if you're going to tease me, you're going to do it in bed." 

"Wow," Blair sighed behind him, "you're being a total dickhead—you really _are_ okay." 

It made him want to stop right where he was, stop and pull Sandburg into his arms and treasure the friendship that was still there, that could still exist even though everything else had changed. He wouldn't—didn't—do it, though; dragging Blair upstairs and getting naked with him was one thing, but trying to explain that he was clinging like a leech because he'd just realized that they'd still be able to have belching contests and fight over the remote control seemed a little beyond him at the moment. 

He kept his grip on Blair's wrist until they'd reached the top of the stairs, and then, as he now had a perfectly good excuse, he gathered the other man close, nuzzling against silky curls until he thought he might sneeze. 

"Um... Jim?" 

Uh-oh. He knew that tone. He sighed. "Yes?" 

"Did you want to... Shouldn't we... There's probably a few things we should talk about, you know?" Once again, proof positive—that tone meant trouble. 

"Later, Sandburg." There had to be _some_ way to effectively sidetrack this conversation... 

"Just one thing, then," Blair sounded almost desperate. "Just let me tell you this one thing..." 

"Okay," Jim breathed agreeably. He was certainly feeling very agreeable, all things considered. His hands had just discovered Sandburg's ass, and all the implications of what might happen if he grabbed it and pulled them together. 

He didn't have to. Abruptly Blair was as close as he could get without actually being behind him, hands pressed hard into his back, head pressed even harder into his collarbone. "I just want you to know that this has been... that I've wanted you for a long... a really long time. That's all. I just wanted you to know that." 

Jim felt his face go hot, and abruptly he was glad that Blair's head was buried down near his chest. It was a bit like getting cut with a knife in the middle of a fight—a knowledge of a wound inflicted and an immediate prickly numbness, but no _real_ pain, and no awareness of just how bad the damage might be until later, after all the excitement was over and done. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to him. 

"Yeah," he mumbled quietly in response, "I know that, Chief. I know." 

And then Blair was out of his arms and separate again, separate but not gone, squeezing his hand gently. "You have to tell me—I _know_ you hate it, Jim, but you have to—you've gotta let me know when you want or don't want something. I don't want to ruin this—I don't want to scare you off. Okay?" 

"Mm-hmm." It was the best he could do. Blair was stroking his hand now like it was the only part of Jim he was allowed to touch, and Jim could feel the blood moving through his veins there, the skin exquisitely sensitive under the caress of a callused thumb, the eloquently poignant spur of dragged fingernails. His nipples and his cock were achingly hard, and he could feel something coiling low within him, some huge and terrifying and deeply impatient _thing_ , just waiting for him to let his guard down so that it could take over and start making demands. 

And Sandburg, goddamn it, wasn't making it any easier on him. Leading him towards the bed as slowly and tenderly as if he were some blushing virgin ( _well..._ ), tentative kisses, tentative touches, light-years away from what he really, really needed. He didn't know quite when he'd started making that scary growling noise, but it seemed omnipresent, a sound born of frustration so thick it colored the air around him. 

Of course, now that Blair had tapped into some revoltingly bottomless fount of restraint, he had to go and take it all wrong. "Okay, man, easy—I'm not going to... I'm not gonna go too fast here, Jim. Just talk to me." Blair was petting his hair now, gentling him as if he were some scared animal just waiting to bolt. ( _Great—he thinks I'm fucking Bambi..._ ) 

"Blair!" It tore out of him, much more harshly than he'd intended, and he whipped his head away from that maddening, uncertain touch. Blair backed away, palms raised, eyes big and concerned and irritatingly apologetic. 

"Sorry—didn't mean to push you—" 

"Sandburg—" Jim reached for the closest, upraised hand, slapped it firmly against the back of his own, and then reached—all in a tangle, with the surpassing weirdness of compelling Blair to force him—and (finally!) down to that warm, hard place between Blair's legs. "For a smart guy, you can be a real idiot." 

He leaned close, enjoying somebody else's look of shock, for a change. "Just fucking push me." 

* * *

Never let it be said that Sandburg couldn't take a hint, at least, not after it had been steamrollered into him—Jim found himself naked and flat on his back almost as quickly as he could have wished. The thrumming urgency of need backed off a little as he watched Blair strip, a mild and wondering distraction over his own response; falling effortlessly into fascination—( _this? This short, hairy, naked guy sporting a big ol' red hard-on? This makes me hot?_ ) 

Oh _fuck_ yes. 

When Jim saw the shallow, healing wound on Blair's thigh it touched something in him, something that called up a piercing sense of gratitude for what had been discovered here, for this moment. It drew him off the bed as if in a dream—the hard floor might as well have been as soft as down under his knees; he neither noticed nor cared. All he felt was the desire to place a kiss there, which he did, softly; with his eyes closed. 

"Mmm..." Blair touched his head gently, but there was no Bambi-ish hesitation this time. When those hands tilted his head back Jim went along, his muscles tightening a little as his heart started to pound. Blair had that deliberate, _intent_ look again, the one that said 'I'm doing this to you totally on purpose', the one that sank into him like heat. "You've never done this before." 

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a question but it did provide Jim with some answers, as all of a sudden he realized his own position and what Blair was talking about and what was about to happen here... and really, he hadn't meant to... to offer what Blair thought was being offered; but now it was about to be _taken_ from him and really that was probably for the best because he really felt terribly, horribly unstrung right now... 

He only shook his head. He didn't think he could actually speak, but apparently he was wrong because while he was lost and staring deep into Blair's eyes he heard his own voice, low and tense—"Does that turn you on?" Jim pressed his lips together too hard, too late, and felt his face glow warm. 

Blair's answering smile was very faint, but his eyes were brilliant. "Yeah, Jim, it does." Spoken as calmly as if Jim had asked if it looked like rain outside. Jim shivered. 

Blair leaned down to him slowly, and Jim opened his mouth for a kiss but it was Blair's fingers that slipped into him, just blue eyes watching him and warm, slightly salty fingers running across his tongue. He closed his eyes and sucked. 

"Everything... everything about you turns me on," husky and low, and that, along with the gentle presence thrusting into his mouth, getting him ready; drew a line of electricity through him that tingled everywhere. 

Fingers out, thumb in, thumb across his tongue and he thought Blair stood up again but he couldn't bring himself to look; and then he did what the thumb told him to do and opened, opened wide for it. The scent of musk filled him, and the first hot satin touch on his tongue made his cock twitch and drip; and thank God he didn't have to snake himself forward and take it because Blair brought it to him, gave him all he could possibly handle and then a little more. 

He choked briefly, and his hands came up in reflex to clutch warm, solid thighs. He held still. 

Ragged breath above him, a quiver in the muscles under his hands, and his throat hurt with wanting as Blair pulled back, left him empty only to fill him again wonderfully, even deeper. When insistent hands came to rest on his head he felt _illuminated_ by the perfection of it, held in place; held open while the cock in his mouth rocked forward and back, always gentle but always taking more, stealing upon him by degrees until he was shaking and sweating and absolutely drugged with the knowledge that he was actually, that he _could_ actually do this—could get down on his knees and offer Blair this, could take it when Blair worked himself in deep, could give this kind of pleasure. 

"Your mouth... your _mouth_ , Jim, oh my God..." he heard Blair losing it, heard it and didn't care because he wanted it, and in a moment he was going to reach down and give himself one hard squeeze and that would be enough... 

"Don't!" Panted from above, rough and urgent. "Don't you even _touch_ your cock, Jim—that's _mine_." He wouldn't have thought it was possible, but Blair dragged him up off his knees easily enough. His throat ached with emptiness but it was only a moment, only a dizzy, quick moment before Blair was on him and kissing him deep, toppling him onto the bed in a wonderful, sweaty, straining tangle. 

"That was _so_ fucking good, Jim," mumbled around his tongue, barely comprehensible, and for some reason Sandburg apparently felt the need to hold Jim's arms down at his sides, pressing him with his full weight into the mattress even though he wasn't going anywhere. He discovered the reason for this when Blair slithered down his body like a greased snake, eased down and swallowed him whole. Bright stars exploded behind his closed eyes and then everything was wet; hot, wet, and pounding within him as Blair sucked him down, sucked him _hard_ , held him down and sucked his cock like he was _starving_ for it... 

There were some strange noises going on, fading in and out; yelps and sighs and groans that had to be coming from him because Blair's mouth was very full, very full and very busy driving him out of his mind. His head arched back, helplessly; he couldn't thrust because of the weight on him but he could do this, he could surrender to that touch and give it up and offer everything he was. "I'm..." he managed in a strangled voice, "Blair... I'm... going to..." 

Freedom was like a terrible, cramping pain as Blair rose up off him, and he cried out with loss until his mouth was muffled with a kiss, slow and sweet and a whole new kind of torment altogether. "No, not yet you're not," whispered moist against his lips, and he was so fucking far gone he didn't even care that his eyes were burning again, that he suddenly felt lost and terrified and way too vulnerable to every awareness of what Blair was pouring into him, desperately afraid to be taken to the place where he knew he wanted to go. 

"Trust me," Blair murmured in his ear, and then Jim was on top of the fear, accepting it and not fighting any more as Blair let go of him and rummaged in his bedside drawer, pulling out condoms and then diving back in, searching. He let it happen—let his eyes run, let his heart pound, let his body shake as hard as it wanted to. Trust. More right than probably even Sandburg knew, because there was a lot more at stake here than just his self-image and the truth behind his hidden desires— 

Jim's wiped his eyes quickly before Blair could turn back to him. He moved to turn over ( _easier not to look, much easier not to have to look_ ), but Blair stopped him, steadied him. "No, Jim. I have to _see_ you. Hold you and see you." 

Strangely enough, that made everything simultaneously better and worse. He watched Blair draw on a condom with an odd kind of detachment, knowing only that he was afraid, and that he trusted. He was not alone, he remembered that. Not alone. 

Blair had found the old bottle of lotion he kept in his drawer, and the scent of it—plain and prosaic, memories of cold, windy days and solitary shifts and rough, chapped hands—tore at him in a horribly deep way; what was he leaving behind, here? What was he turning his back on forever? What would this _do_ to him? 

"Breathe, Jim," Blair reminded him softly, and he whooped for air he'd been denying himself. Blair was close again, right next to him, lying beside him so that he didn't feel quite so weird about being flat on his back with his legs spread wide, something that was abruptly about as erotic as going to the doctor. His erection had faded completely. 

Sandburg didn't even seem to notice. He nuzzled gently against Jim's neck while his slick hand slid up and over his flaccid penis, an incredibly soft and intimate touch that felt like it went all through him, slow and patient and achingly tender. He wasn't flaccid for long. 

"Oh..." He couldn't keep the sound in. Blair nipped his throat and cradled his balls at the same moment, and Jim curled up around him reflexively, all the remembered heat flowing freely now as he buried himself in the smell and taste and texture of Blair's skin, rough with stubble here at his cheek, dizzyingly silky back near his earlobe. 

Blair took his mouth and said things without words, licking the truth of seduction out of him until his shudders of fear had become quivers of need once again, nibbling a complex pattern on his tongue that made his nerves sing. It was an abrupt shock to realize in mid-moan that Blair was _inside_ him now, that the low, satiny pulse teasing at him from the waist down was because right this moment Blair's fingers were in him, slowly taking him, stroking into him deeper every time he moved. 

He froze for a second, afraid to even breathe, but then Blair brushed over something inside that throbbed through him so intensely that all the air left his body in a startled rush, and he pushed down without thinking, knowing only that he needed _more_. Emptiness there, needing to be filled. He gasped. 

"Okay—we're okay, just hold me," Blair moaned, and Jim found that he could do that. He held on as Blair moved above him—warm, soft skin, trembling muscle, deliriously close scent of arousal, of musk, of Blair—and where there had been emptiness there was now pain, bright and sharp and dreadful, and he couldn't believe that he was going through with this but he knew, now, knew what was waiting for him on the other side, and who would be with him on the way. 

"Jim—breathe!" Apparently he wasn't the only one hurting, here. He drew in breath obediently, and let it out in a stunned groan when his body relaxed and Blair just slid deep into him, one simple thrust that almost killed him as pleasure blazed up and took him over. 

"Blair..." he murmured, squeezing tight, shifting, his hips lifting somehow without his help, "that's... Jesus, Blair! Oh—" 

"Yeah," Blair finished for him, voice shaking, limbs shaking, moving inside him now so easily, so gently; "oh yeah, my God you feel so _fucking_ good, Jim... like home, you feel like home to me—want you want you want you..." 

Things fell apart a little then, and Jim found himself gnawing on Blair's shoulder so that he wouldn't scream and scare both of them, holding everything inside that wanted to pour out of him—he couldn't hold Blair anymore because Blair had both his hands in a deathgrip, fingers tight together and keeping him pinned flat to the bed, laying claim to him. 

He didn't have to ask, he didn't have to try to find the breath to ask for a single thing because Blair gave it all to him, took him with wild, deep abandon that left him simultaneously filled and hungry, unable to believe that he had taken so very, very long to find this. He held on. 

Blair moaned breathlessly in his ear, paused one heart-skipping moment while he released Jim's hands and fastened instead on his hips, and then Jim felt his thighs stretch as Blair moved them further apart and started _pounding_ into him—and oh dear God he was getting _fucked_ by a _man_ here, getting fucked _hard_ —by _Blair_ , by Blair—and he never, ever wanted it to stop but the top of his head was going to explode... and then Blair grabbed his cock and he _did_ explode, sobbing; twisting up to get more of it while Blair stroked him and squeezed him and bit him, crying out against his neck while crushing him deep, deep into the bed. 

There was a rushing moment of awareness that Blair was coming inside him, and then everything went back to hot and wet as liquid spread on his stomach and sweat trickled down the crevices of his body. He went lax with residual pleasure and just absorbed it, soaked up Blair's essence and his sounds and his wonderful, trembling, ecstatic body; drinking in all that was there for him. 

He was aware, excruciatingly aware, that he was not alone. 

* * *

And that, perhaps not surprisingly, was the part that gave him a hard time. In the dark, soaked aftermath of slowing breath and quiet sighs, when Blair's hand moved softly over his face as if reading him by touch, Jim kept waiting to feel them move apart, and it kept not happening. 

At first, afterwards, he'd simply fallen into Sandburg's heartbeat; focused in on it as if drawn there because it was a familiar sound, a known sound, and one that he cherished. He realized with sleepy awe that it was different now—not the sound itself but his hearing of it—he'd never heard it quite so clearly before... never heard it descend from a peak of having just come inside his body... 

A very different sound, and, God help him, he didn't really know what the hell he was supposed to do about that. He could handle the parts of this that were about himself—truths uncomfortable but nevertheless bearable; bearable because, underneath it all, he knew he'd lost nothing, and gained a world. But this wasn't just about him (like he could do _that_ on his own!), but about both of them, about the man ( _partner, friend, Blair_ ) lying on top of him right now so heavy and sated, so beautiful in the faint light. About _him_. Blair wasn't inside him anymore, he'd felt him go very clearly; but... 

But he kept waiting for them to move apart, and it kept not happening. 

It felt very strange, to be this close to somebody. Of all the strangeness of this incredibly fucking strange day, that seemed to be the worst of it—he'd adjusted to so much, and apparently his adjust-o-meter had just fried itself out because suddenly he couldn't at all make sense of what he was doing here, lying naked in the dark with Blair in his arms, quiet and still and close. He was starting to panic a little, and he was drowsy, and it was really kind of interesting the way he couldn't be sure if he was about to pass out or bolt for the shower. He didn't want to bolt—it would be better for Blair to move away first, better and easier— 

"Jim?" Soft but tranquil, no hesitation evident, and that in and of itself calmed him a little. 

"Yeah?" 

"You know—what you said earlier, about how you kind of expected this?" 

"Yeah." 

Blair shifted against him, lightly. "Well, I... I didn't." 

"Mm." What the hell did _that_ mean? ( _Silence, Ellison; let the motormouth elucidate._ ) 

Sure enough, Blair had further information to impart. "I've wanted this—I've thought about it for so long, but, like, I never thought it would really _happen_ , you know?" 

"Yeah, it does seem kind of unlikely, Chief." ( _What's your frigging point, Sandburg?_ ) 

"Yeah." Blair sighed, and shifted again. "But it _did_ happen, Jim; and it was... it was nothing like what I expected. I didn't expect _that_." 

Jim had such overwhelming empathy with that statement that he managed to persuade his arms to actually move, a last hug before this little interlude was over and he had to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next. "Me either, Chief. Me either." 

Blair seemed to perk up at that and nuzzled him happily, sniffing his ear. "Really?" 

Jim tucked the ear hastily into his shoulder, twisting away before it could tickle. "Do you think I'm some kind of fucking compulsive liar, Sandburg? I just told you—" 

"Twice. I know." Blair appeared utterly unperturbed by his surliness, but only settled closer to him, sighing peacefully, going slowly, bonelessly limp. "I _know_ you, Jim Ellison." 

And Jim realized right then that Blair wasn't waiting for an opportune moment to move away from him—Blair had made himself at home and pretty much _settled in for the duration_ , and Blair was evidently not concerned at all about his status as a solitary creature, but was perfectly happy to lounge on top of him until they got glued together by the mess trapped between their bodies. 

( _A slob even in the sack. Just my fucking luck._ ) 

He smiled. "I know you too, Blair Sandburg." 

* * *

Disclaimers: They aren't mine. Goodness knows I don't get paid for this.   
Rating: NC-17, for homoerotic content and various colorful expletives.   
Summary: Space and time and events therein are viewed with various levels of objectivity. Smut ensues. Ha!   
General Groveling: Thanks go out to Fannish Butterfly for support, handholding, votes of confidence, and nifty-swifty beta. I quite literally could _not_ have written this without her. This story is dedicated with great love and appreciation to Bone, my own little Sunbeam—you are the Nell to my Snidely, and I never would have decided to hop into this particular bed if you hadn't pulled back the covers for me...   
Feedback: If you're so inclined, at [email removed].   
Author's Note: Still a new little fish in a big scary pond. Happy to be here :-) Just to avoid confusion, please know in advance that I write two kinds of stories: 'Mairead Triste' stories, which are dark, and 'Aristide' stories, which are the fanfic equivalent of pop-tarts: sweet, but indulgent in a no-nutritional-value kind of way. This is a pop-tart. 'Nuff said.   
March, 1999   
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